


we get up early (to beat the sun)

by Isagawa



Category: The Catcher in the Rye - J. D. Salinger
Genre: And he's a good boy so here he gets one, Holden needs and DESERVES therapy, I tried to copy Salinger's style, Other, Pastiche, Post-Canon, You know that feeling when you write because you can't let a character go, first-person narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagawa/pseuds/Isagawa
Summary: 'It was sunny when I went out. In the garden there were two middle-age women talking on a bench. Those were ladies, I tell you: you could see with the way they moved their hands while talking. Refined and all. And beyond the fence, I saw a teenager, walking with his stupid face up.'Post-book. It is a sunny day, and Holden goes to therapy.





	we get up early (to beat the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> I finished re-reading _the Catcher in the Rye_ yesterday. I’d already read it multiple times but it was my first time reading it in English (since I’m French), and as I closed the book I found out I wasn’t ready to let Holden go yet. So I wrote this. I actually had a blast trying to imitate Salinger’s writing, it was a great stylistic exercise!  
> Title from ‘outgrow’ by Lewis Watson, a song that makes me think about Holden a LOT (you can find some other lyrics in the endnotes).

It was sunny when I went out. In the garden there were two middle-age women talking on a bench. Those were ladies, I tell you: you could see with the way they moved their hands while talking. Refined and all. And beyond the fence, I saw a teenager, walking with his face up. It would’ve been cute if he’d been a little boy, but he was quite gangly and all, with his stupid face up, as if the goddamn sun was gonna pour him a drink, right in his mouth or something. It depressed me. You’d think sunny weather would lighten up my mood, but I wasn’t lightened up at all. It’s weird, because objectively, I can understand why people like it when it’s sunny, but I don’t. I just don’t. I don’t know why.

     The first thing I did, when I entered this psychiatrist’s room, I sat on the chair. I didn’t even look at her before I did. You wouldn’t wait around in a psychiatrist’s room. First thing, you know what you’re here for, and she knows too, so it’s not like your presence surprised anyone, or anything. Also, I had tried it the first time --the whole waiting for her to tell me to sit down and all-- but she hadn’t noticed right away, so I had to stand up for a helluva long time. Boy, had it been embarrassing. She didn’t care too much, I could tell, but it was still very embarrassing.

     It made me think about that one time in primary school, with that boy, John Steward. Old John Steward-- do you believe he could have such a name? This is the kind of name you give to the love interest of your book, when you’re a lousy writer writing lousy romances for old ladies. The kind when the protagonist is a young but not so young woman with a lousy life that wants to find a purpose, and if you don’t know that kind of story you think she’s gonna find a nice job or nice friends or something, but all she really gets are problems. And then John Steward shows up and he drives her around and she talks about her family and how they let her down and all, sometimes if the author’s in shape she even talks about something tragic that happened in her life, like how she got pregnant when she was a teenager and it was a bad idea but she decided to keep the baby and it ended up with a miscarriage all the same. Then that John Steward man says ‘Let’s get out of the car’ and she cries under the stars or something, and at some point the woman finds out  _he_  is the purpose she has searched for her whole life. Boy. Lousy books. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, you’re lucky.

     Anyway, John Steward. It’s so lousy it doesn’t sound like a real name. I said that to John Steward (the real John Steward, I mean), first day of second grade. I’ll tell you, he wasn’t happy with it. But he didn’t put up a fight or anything. He just stood there and looked me in the eye and said with this very sarcastic voice: ‘Yeah, because  _Holden_  is so much better.’ I swear I still feel the burn to this day. Old John Steward. Seven years old and he was already ready to burn people to the ground. The thing is, we became sort of friends after that. He had a lousy name but it was the only real lousy thing about him. He left school in fifth grade, I think, because his parents were moving to Los Angeles. Old John Steward. The thing is, I don’t remember his face or anything. I think I only remembered him because of his lousy name. Just goes to show, people never remember you for the good reasons.

     ‘And why are you telling me about John Steward?’ the psychiatrist said. (I think her name is Mrs Brownweather. Actually I’m sure of it, because when I had said it to Phoebe, she had said: “Weather, like Wheatherfield?” She had been very excited about it. It killed me.)

     She kind of caught me off guard with her question. Sometimes I don’t notice I’m rambling. I looked up at her, sitting in front of my chair in her own chair with her brushing and all. She looks nice. I can see why she got the job. Women with wavy brown hair and little glasses and a nice smile, you always want to tell them about your whole life.

     ‘I don’t know. Do I need a reason to talk about John Steward?’

     ‘No, no reason needed,’ she said. ‘If you want to talk, you want to talk.’

     This was actually quite nice of her to say that. When you talk, especially when you ramble a lot like, people often don’t listen to you. Sometimes they make it look like they listen, but they don’t. Sometimes they don’t even bother. I don’t know what’s worse.

     ‘The thing is,’ Mrs Brownweather kept going, ‘I’m afraid if you talk about anything that passes your mind, you are not going to talk about what really matters to you.’

     I sort of wanted to tell her that nothing really matters to me, but something held me back. I guess that as a therapist, she didn’t want to hear that. Since she’s supposed to help me heal or something.

     ‘Mrs Brownweather, you know the women in lousy books that can’t find a purpose?’

     ‘Yes, you just told me about them’, she said with a little smile. She wasn’t making fun of me or anything. She’s just nice like that.

     ‘Well, they're a bore. For two hundred pages they can’t find a purpose, and suddenly when the man shows up he’s their reason to live. It annoys the hell out of me.’

     ‘Why is that?’

     I took a second. ‘For one thing, you don’t find a reason to live so quickly. I mean, not when you have been searching for it for a while. I think some people, they find their reason to live quick and easy, but when it’s not clear right from the start, it doesn’t become clear all of a sudden. If you see what I mean.’

     ‘I think I do.’

     ‘And,’ I kept going, ‘their reason to live always sucks. Why do they always choose lousy men? I mean, it has to be a good reason. This is  _living_  we’re talking about. You have to find a good reason.’

     ‘Do you really think there are bad reasons to live, Holden? Don’t you think that something you love, and that makes you want to live, isn’t as good a reason as anything else, even if it sounds stupid to others?’

     ‘I don’t know. Some things really are stupid.’

     ‘But even if they are stupid in and of themselves, don’t you think it stops them from being good reasons?’

     I felt like she was trying to tell me something, but some reasons are just stupid. I can tell you. Having a John Steward as your reason to live is stupid. So I told her that. ‘I think I see why you’re telling me this, but I still think it’s dumb, miss.’

     ‘Ok, I’ll admit. Some reasons are stupid,’ she said. ‘But tell me, Holden, what do you think is more stupid: having a dumb reason to live, or not having one at all?’

     That was when I looked at her funny. That’s impressive. Every therapy session we’ve done this far, at some point she says something that makes me look at her funny. Like, ‘ _You think because you consciously know that Allie’s dead you’re done processing it_ ’, or ‘ _Just because you want to be left alone doesn’t mean this is what would be good for you_ ’, or that thing she said about me trying to protect my mom and hurting her instead (I don’t remember her exact words for this one, but I’m telling you, it was impressive).

     ‘Holden?’

     I snapped out of my thoughts. Even when you feel like complimenting someone in your head, you have to remember you’re doing something else. There’s never time to do anything pleasing. There’s never time. It depressed me a bit.

     ‘I think not having a reason to live at all is mostly sad. I mean it’s stupid but also very sad.’

     ‘So don’t you think it’s better to have a dumb reason than not having one at all?’

     ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘In my opinion, the best choice would be to wait until you find a  _good_  reason to live. You know, take time, really think it through.’

     ‘But some people don’t have much time, Holden’, Mrs Brownweather said. She was looking right at me, little glasses and all. ‘Some people have to resolve to a plan B, until they find a plan A. Like you said, this is  _living_  we’re talking about. If you don’t have any plan at all, you could end up dead. This would be a very sorry thing.’

    ‘You’re right.’ I was thinking about James Castle and his bloody head on the ground. ‘Some people, they’re young and with all their life ahead of them, but they don’t have much time, I guess,’ I said. I was still thinking about that boy James Castle. But suddenly I looked at Mrs Brownweather and saw her looking back, and I saw very clearly that she was thinking about _me_.

     ‘You know, Holden,’ she said after a few seconds, ‘I think you’re a perfectionist.’

      Ha! You could see she hadn’t met any of my former teachers. Boy, did I fall off my chair when she said that. My teachers, _t_ _hey_ certainly wouldn’t have said that about me. Back in highschool, I flunked almost all of my classes. But I already told you about that. I’m sure I already told you about that. 

     When I said I fell off my chair, though-- that’s only metaphorically. Truth be told, it was as if my behind was glued to the chair. In fact, I was waiting for her to go on. I always know when she’s gonna say something important, because you can feel  _she_  knows it’s important. It’s not show-offy or anything. It’s just that the air seems to vibrate around her when she’s gonna say something important. Most of the time, she’s right, too.

    ‘I think you’re a perfectionist’, she repeated. ‘And I think you know what I mean.’ I did, too, but only partially. As if it was something I had already heard and forgotten, sorta. I like when she explains something, too, plain and simple, so I shut up.

    ‘You’re scared to make bad choices, so you wait and wait until something you deem acceptable comes to you, but in the meantime, you only tread water. And one can’t know whether the acceptable --the perfect-- solution will come or not. One can’t be sure. And it stops you from getting better. The thing is, Holden, it’s time you stop being afraid, because this is what’ll get you, in the end.’ She stopped a minute, to breathe and all --- that was quite a lot of sentences for someone whose job it is to listen to me talk. And _I_ wasn’t breathing at all.

     ‘You have to find a reason to live and stick to it, even if you feel it’s not worth it in itself. Like your parents, for example, or your little sister.’ 

     Boy, I  _ jumped  _ at that. 

     ‘I’m not gonna put it all on Phoebe’s head. I’m _not_ gonna do it. This is too much for her, for Chrissake! Imagine you’re just a nice kid, doing good in school, just asking for ice-cream from time to time and all, and some fuck-up looks at you and thinks, this little girl is my reason to live. When you’re a little kid doing good in school and eating ice cream people always ask you weird things like, do you want to be my reason to live. I hate that. No, I’m not gonna do that. I’m not gonna do that. For Chrissake. She’s a _kid_.’ God, I was angry. It made me really depressed, too, for some reason. Thinking that I could put it all on old Phoebe’s head. 

     ‘Okay. Okay. I see,’ Mrs Brownweather said.

     I wasn’t sure she was seeing anything, though. That’s the thing with therapists, they always say they see whether they really do or not. But she changed the subject then, and I didn’t object because I too didn’t want to keep talking about Phoebe. _God_. ‘But what about books, then?’

     ‘What about them?’ I wasn’t following her at all. Maybe it was because I was still a bit angry. I tend to not listen when I’m angry.

     ‘You like books, don’t you? You told me you flunked everything except English. And you read lots of books. Maybe you could consider living to read books. Or even write books. Since your brother writes pictures now, the place is vacant, isn’t it?’ 

     ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

     I really didn’t, too. I hadn’t considered it at all. I figured living only for books was pretty dumb. But if I said it out loud, Mrs Brownweather would say we’d already gone over that. She’d have been right, too.

     ‘You should think about it, for next week’s appointment’ Mrs Brownweather said. ‘About what it would be nice to live for. You can even make a list. And Holden-- you can make a list about what you don’t want to live for, like your sister. I think it would be interesting. I think we could talk about it.’

     ‘Yes, Ma’am’, I said.

     She smiled. She really had a terrifically nice smile. It made me quite not-angry at her. It made me feel like my anger was acknowledged. Or understood. It was quite nice. If I'm being honest, I should even say, it’s a weird, rare feeling --- I mean, feeling like your emotions belong in this world and all. Therapists, I tell you. It's like it's their job or something.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh brother, my brother, where have you gone  
> I wrote to you, said I missed you, our sister is moving on  
> Remember when we were children, we were just children having fun  
> I fall asleep with a burden, and we get up early, to beat the sun
> 
> When was the last time we stayed up to count the stars?  
> When was the last time we said that the world was ours?  
> Oh mother, oh mother,  
> I’m outgrown."
> 
> ([Please please listen to it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoAAorw_9mI))


End file.
